True Colours
by jadey36
Summary: Written for Livejournal Slashfest 2012.  Based on the prompt: Robin/Carter/straw.


_Note: written for the prompt: Robin/Carter/Straw_

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><p><strong>True Colours<strong>

Robin is not sure when the fight turns into not a fight. Probably when he realises Carter is no longer sobbing into his shoulder and is instead gently nuzzling the outlaw's neck, suggesting he is anything but distressed.

"Carter? Are you all right?"

Carter breaks into a fresh outburst of choking sobs that do not fool Robin for one moment.

"Carter, look at me."

The young knight lifts his head from Robin's shoulder and meets the outlaw's searching gaze.

"This should be seen to." Robin swipes the pad of his thumb across Carter's bloody cheek.

Carter looks at the blood coating Robin's thumb and flicks out his tongue to lick it clean.

Wondering if the man suffered some sort of damaging blow to the head during the fight, Robin again asks Carter if he is all right.

"God, sorry," Carter says, straightening up and blushing furiously. "It's just I thought...well...I thought..."

"What did you think?" Robin asks, laying his hands tellingly on Carter's upper thighs.

Carter looks down at those slim hands that can so expertly handle a bow and brush away a hurt and confused soldier's bloodied tears.

Taking a shuddery breath, he says, "I saw you, Robin. In the Holy Land. I saw the way the king touched the back of your neck and the way you leaned into him as if you were enjoying it."

"And?"

"And I was curious, so I followed you."

"Followed me where?" Robin asks, glancing at the barn door, expecting his gang to come rushing in at any moment.

"I followed you to the king's tent. I hid outside and waited. I waited all night, but you never came out."

Still on his knees, Carter starts to shuffle backwards, mortified by his confession and looking for all the world as if he wished he were anywhere but in this dusty, straw-filled barn with Robin of Locksley – the great Robin Hood.

Robin grabs his hold of Carter's grubby, bleeding hand.

"What are you trying to say?"

Carter meets Robin's eyes, cannot tell if the outlaw is angry or amused.

"I'm saying that I know about you, about you and King Richard."

"And are planning on using this against me?" Robin asks. "Only I think you'll find that the ramblings of a misguided young knight who has been harbouring ill-will towards me for many a long year will not be believed."

"God, no," Carter says, chewing on his bottom lip, close to fresh tears. "I am not planning anything of the sort. Rather that I was hoping..."

"Carter." Robin places a gentle hand around Carter's neck, easing the man's head towards him so he might look directly into Carter's eyes, "That was in the Holy Land, thousands of miles from home, a different lifetime. Here, I am Robin Hood. Here, I cannot...I cannot let my wants..."

_Shit. _

Carter has stunning blue eyes and, despite the years he has spent living under a foreign sky, pale and almost unblemished skin; and, right here, right now, he looks impossibly kissable.

_Just one little kiss_, Robin thinks, _just to see if it still excites me the way it used to. _ He glances at Carter's belt buckle and at the grubby, bleeding hand still wrapped in his own hand and concludes, before he's even touched the other man's flesh, that it does.

Carter smiles, and Robin smiles, and it would be obvious to anyone but a blind man that both men know what the other is thinking.

"Wait here," Robin says, coming to his feet. He strides to the barn door and peeks out. Heading towards the barn are two members of his gang.

Dropping back in front of Carter, Robin says, "Do that crying thing again."

"What?" Carter asks, baffled.

"For me," Robin says, his hand momentarily brushing Carter's crotch.

"Oh, right," Carter says, grinning at Robin's widening smile.

"Master!" Much cries, flinging open the barn's double doors. "Are you—"

Much stops short, stares, goggle-eyed at his master and the young man who had been trying to kill him only a short while ago.

"Oh," he says. "You're not...he's not..."

"Not dead," Little John says, bundling up behind Much.

Puzzled, Much points at the sobbing Carter, asks, "Why is he crying?"

"Good job," Robin whispers into Carter's left ear.

"He's crying on the wrong side of his face," Robin says, immediately thinking that didn't come out quite as planned.

"What?"

"Much." Robin sighs, as though it is obvious why Carter is crying, and why can't the stupid little man get it. "It was all a misunderstanding. Carter knows I wasn't responsible for his brother's death." Robin inclines his head towards the barn door. "Now if you wouldn't mind."

"You want us to go?"

"Yes. Carter and I need to have a long talk. I owe him that much. I want you and the others to go back to the camp. Marian too." Robin inwardly winces. God help him if Marian were to find out about this. Guiltily, he pushes the thought away. "Please, Much."

"Come on," says Little John, pulling on Much's shirtsleeve. "Robin's obviously in no danger here."

"If you're sure you're all right?" Much says.

"I am fine," Robin says. He finds Carter's hand and gives it a quick squeeze. "We are fine."

"Fine," Much says.

As soon as Much and Little John have gone, Robin leaps up and drops the door's wooden latch, effectively locking him and Carter in the barn.

"Now," he says, again kneeling in front of a nervously excited Carter, "where were we?"

"I think you were here," Carter says, curling his fingers around Robin's right hand and guiding it towards his slightly opened legs and the significant bulge in his breeches.

"Oh, yes. So I was."

Closing his eyes, Carter rocks back and forth on his knees, while Robin gently rubs the material in between Carter's legs.

Carter moans, and Robin whips his hand away.

"What is it?" Carter asks, eyes snapping open and swivelling towards the double doors.

"Too risky," Robin explains.

"Then why did you—"

Robin nods towards the hayloft. "Up there."

Carter smiles. "Oh, I see."

Coming to their feet, the two men climb the short ladder leading to the hayloft and make their way towards the farthest corner. Up here, it is much darker, but not so dark that they cannot see one another. There is also considerably more straw on the floor, something that undoubtedly passes through both men's minds as they look at it and then at each other.

"You're sure?" Carter asks.

"Absolutely," Robin assures him.

Wordlessly, the two men remove their boots and then resume their earlier kneeling position, knees touching.

"Carter?"

"Yes?"

"Have you done this before?"

"Er...no."

"I see."

Robin glances at his boots and, thinking the outlaw is about to change his mind, Carter grabs hold of Robin's arm.

"Was he your first?" Carter asks.

"Who?"

"The king? Was he the first man you...you know?"

"Yes. He was the first."

"And since then?"

"What do you mean, since then?"

"Your gang?"

Robin shakes his head. "No. Far too close to home. Anyway, you know the old saying: never fraternise with the staff. And for God's sake, not a word to them about this, ever."

Carter nods vehemently.

"But you must have been tempted, surely? I don't mean with the big, shaggy-haired guy, but the blond one perhaps, or the slim, dark one?"

"No," Robin says, firmly. "Never."

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Besides," Robin says with a wink, "there are plenty of trees in Sherwood Forest for me to hide behind when it all gets...a bit too much."

"Oh, I see. Right." All fingers and thumbs, Carter starts unbuckling his belt.

"No," Robin says. "Not yet. We'll take it slowly, as it's your first time. Take off your shirt."

Fumbling with the various fastenings, Carter removes his worn leather jerkin and linen shirt.

"And this," Robin says, fingering the silver chain around Carter's neck and the delicate crucifix that rests against his smooth, almost hairless chest.

Carter loops the necklace over his head, lays it on top of his shirt.

Carefully keeping the calloused pads of his bow fingers lifted, Robin runs his hands over Carter's exposed skin. Unsure where to look, Carter closes his eyes.

With Carter not looking, Robin can revel in the sensation of letting his hands roam over male flesh once again. What he sees and touches delights him. King Richard, despite the privileges his kingship brought him, had been no idler, kept himself firmly muscled. But the king was too broad, too hairy for Robin's liking. What Carter has to offer is ten times better.

Robin parts his legs a little, aware of the telltale twitch of arousal in between them, gently cups Carter's ball-sack through the material of his breeches. Carter groans. Sliding his free hand from Carter's nipple, Robin expertly unhooks the young knight's belt buckle, pushing his hand into the man's braies.

"Is this all right?" Robin asks, working Carter with sure, firm strokes, the time he spent with the king coming back to him as if it were only yesterday.

"God, yes," Carter says, trembling.

Robin recalls telling Carter that they should take things slowly and withdraws his hand.

Carter opens his eyes. "Is something wrong?" he asks, clearly perturbed. "Do you want me to—"

"No," Robin says. "You're not doing anything wrong. But I did tell the gang that you and I needed a long talk, and at this rate it'll all be over before it's even begun."

"I'm sorry," Carter says. "I'm not usually like this with women. It's just...God, you really know how to touch a man and I...well, I—"

"Carter, why don't we just dispense with the talking?"

"Oh. Right. Yes," Carter stammers, his cheeks pinking at his childish bumbling.

Robin removes his own leather jerkin and shirt. Rising onto his knees, he unbuckles his knife-belt and unlaces his breeches, sliding both them and his braies down to his bent knees.

Carter tries not to look, but does anyway.

"Would you like to watch?" Robin asks.

Carter recalls Robin's suggestion of not talking and nods.

Closing his eyes, Robin very slowly begins.

Now it is Carter's turn to openly appraise the other man. Muscled, but not overly. A sparsely haired chest. A whitish scar, furrowed – nasty. A wooden outlaw tag resting in the hollow of Robin's chest.

Carter lowers his eyes, swallows.

Robin senses the other man's careful scrutiny. His hand stills. He opens his eyes, smiles at Carter. "Pull down your undergarments," he instructs.

Carter does so, wondering if Robin is going to ask him to do the same with his own arousal and whether he will be able to. Self-pleasuring is not exactly hard, but doing it in front of someone else, especially when that someone else happens to be the estimable Robin Hood, is another matter entirely.

"Move closer," Robin says.

Carter shuffles on his knees, until the tip of his achingly hard cock is all but touching Robin's.

"Now, stay still and just watch," Robin tells him.

Again, Carter lowers his eyes, desperately hoping he's not about to embarrass himself by ejaculating over Robin's private parts. So tempting is the idea that Carter's hand leaps towards his own erection before he can stop himself. Robin bats it away.

"Tut, tut," he says. "I believe I outrank you, so my turn first."

Sheepishly, Carter tucks the offending hand behind his back, goes back to watching. He does not have to wait long.

With a small grunt of relief, and a hand on Carter's shoulder to steady himself, Robin lets go, his warm come running down the inner thighs of the younger man's legs.

"Fuck," Carter exclaims.

"That comes later," Robin mumbles.

Carter's concealed hand flies to his own cock, but, once again, Robin bats it away.

With one hand on Carter's bare back, pulling the man into his chest, and the other on Carter's erection, Robin says, "Let me do it."

Carter relaxes into Robin's considerable care, but after several minutes, it becomes obvious that Carter is having trouble reaching the finishing post.

Robin grunts, displeased. "Is something the matter?" he asks.

"I...I can't," Carter stammers. "I can't come all over—"

"Don't you get it?" Robin grinds out. "I _want_ you to. Please."

Robin hears how close to begging he sounds, can't worry about it. All that matters is that he wants to do dirty, filthy, degrading things with Carter and to hell with how it looks.

Carter nods.

"Close your eyes, if it helps," Robin says, gently.

Carter does so, and, moments later, his milky splash spurts between Robin's open legs.

"Now," Robin says, after each man's breathing is back to something resembling normal, "how about we try something else? Only my knees are starting to hurt."

Carter laughs and drops down onto the straw. "That," he says, "was bloody fantastic."

"That," says Robin, "is just a taste of what's to come."

Carter smiles, enjoying the way Robin worked his tongue around the word 'taste'. He glances around the hayloft.

"Lost something?" Robin asks.

"No. I just thought. Well, I just thought we would need, you know, something for..." Unable to finish the thought, Carter twists around and points at his backside.

"Sorry," Robin says – and he is genuinely sorry – "but my friends will be expecting me back soon and I'm afraid we won't have the time. These things can't be rushed, and it takes a bit of getting used to when it's your first time."

"Oh," Carter says, unable to hide his dejection.

Robin shuffles closer to Carter, wraps his arms around him.

"I'm really sorry," he says, telling himself it's for the best, yet at the same time acutely aware of the unmistakeable swoop of arousal low down in his stomach, as he imagines taking Carter from behind. "We just can't."

Emboldened, Carter runs a hand through Robin's hair and stares into the outlaw's eyes.

"Why can't we? Your men have gone back to the camp. They are not expecting you for some time. The barn is latched and, even if someone comes in, no-one can see us up here. You are I are both trained military men, we know how to be quiet."

"I can't argue with any of that," Robin says, planting his hands on either side of Carter's head and kissing him, long and hard.

Carter is quick to respond, feeling himself on more solid ground when it comes to mouths.

Tongues follow lips. Warm, slippery, desperate tongues.

Robin hardly ever kissed King Richard, and then only when pressed to do so; everything started and ended below the waist. Richard didn't seem to care and it (just about) made Robin feel comfortable with the fact he was not only fucking a man but also his king.

Carter is different. Carter is young and good-looking and incredibly hungry for it and what he doesn't know about bedding a man he certainly makes up for with his kissing prowess.

Robin presses into Carter's naked flesh. Both men are a similar height, so hips meet hips and crotch meets crotch and each feels the other man's burgeoning erection.

"Please," Carter manages. "I want it to be with you."

"It'll hurt," Robin warns him.

"I don't care."

The two men break apart, hearts pounding, hair mussed up, lips slightly swollen from their frenzied kissing session.

Turning around and offering his backside to Carter, Robin says, "You do me."

"But we don't have—"

"Use your spit," Robin says. "Lots of it."

Carter stares. Robin has a small brown mole in the middle of his right buttock.

Lowering onto his elbows, Robin opens his legs wider, giving Carter the best possible chance of getting it right.

Carter spits, several times.

"One finger to start with," Robin instructs.

Carter nods, even though Robin can't see him.

Apart from a small, involuntary jerk, Robin holds perfectly still. The king often hurt him, always in too much of a hurry to take his time. Carter is being gentle, almost too gentle. Robin pushes back against the two fingers Carter has inside him, willing Carter to get on with it, his pent up need for this to happen sometime soon causing him to forget the other man's inexperience.

"Robin, I need to..."

Carter doesn't need to finish the sentence. Robin can tell by the man's strangled voice that if he doesn't do it now, all Robin is going to end up with for his pains is a wet backside and a profusely apologetic blond knight.

Robin sucks in a breath. "Do it," he says.

Trembling, Carter guides his erection into Robin's willing backside.

Robin grits his teeth – it's been a long time.

"Slowly," he manages to say.

And Carter moves slowly because he's good at taking orders and because he wants to please Robin.

"Sweet, Holy Mother of God," Carter exclaims.

"Amen," Robin says, grinding his forehead into the hard wooden boards beneath his head.

Moments later, and before Carter has even pulled out of him, Robin watches as a stream of ejaculate – his – hits the straw-strewn floor.

They don't speak for some time, and when they do, it is Carter who sounds the assured one and Robin who stumbles over his words.

"When can we do this again?" Carter asks, looping the silver crucifix around his neck.

"I'm sorry, Carter. We...we can't do this again."

"Not ever?" Carter asks, failing to keep the hurt from his voice.

"No," Robin says. "Not ever." He reaches across the small space that separates them, touches Carter's still bleeding cheek. "Carter, I am Robin Hood. My people need me. My—"

"What about me?" Carter interrupts.

"You are the king's man, and that is where you must go now."

"Back to the Holy Land?"

"Yes. You found me. You did what you set out to do."

"I set out to kill you," Carter reminds Robin.

Robin grins. "Well, I'd say you've accomplished that task. Haven't you just run me through?"

Carter blushes.

"Oh, and remember me to the king, won't you?" Robin says.

"All of you?" Carter asks.

Robin considers. "Yes, all of me. I think you'll find Richard knows how to treat his second-in-command. Tell him I said you come highly recommended."

"I think I'd rather just remember this," Carter says, waving his arms at the straw-filled hayloft.

"Suit yourself," Robin says. "But know this. Now you've done this once you'll want to do it again. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."

"So how do you manage?" Carter asks.

"By finding a good woman and by having a vivid imagination." Robin winks. "Now go."

Carter makes his way down the ladder.

"Aren't you coming?" he calls when Robin doesn't appear over the edge of the hayloft.

"No. You go on ahead. I want to stay a bit longer. It's not often I find myself with a bit of peace and quiet."

"Oh, right. So long then."

Robin doesn't answer, simply waits for the sound of the barn door opening and closing.

Laying his boots aside, Robin stretches out on the straw, ignoring the damp patches underneath him.

_A vivid imagination_, he thinks, sliding a hand down the front of his breeches.

Perhaps now he can stop imagining black leather, long, dark hair and a cruel grin, and think instead of short blond hair and a crucifix.

**The end **


End file.
